


Pin and Mount

by ScarletteStar1



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, Freakytits - Freeform, chinks in Joans armor, dream fic, drunk vera
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-26 15:04:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15665637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarletteStar1/pseuds/ScarletteStar1
Summary: Joan wakes and wants to bend her subconscious to her will. . . dreams are such slippery things after all.





	Pin and Mount

 

She wakes and for a moment she’s perplexed to find herself alone in her bed.

She’s curled on her left side as usual, and the light is just so. She smells coffee percolating, set on the timer the night before, as it always is.

She’s not needed an alarm to tell her it is five a.m. for many years now. She has trained her body to respond to the hours of the day with military precision.

But for some reason, this morning, she lounges. She thrusts a leg out of the blankets and hooks it over the top to feel the cool morning air on her skin.

But only for a moment.

Dreams are such slippery little creatures. They slide through the darkness of one’s subconscious with an eel-like silence that is at once terrifying and thrilling. And then in the light of day they flutter off like a fucking butterfly. Joan never liked butterflies. Nor did she ever particularly enjoy dreams, or the interpretation of them. She always found them to be menacing, teasing, and silly. Although Joan has often thought such, she’s never shied away from abusing the dreams of others to suit her needs. There is something seductive about dreams occurring under the skullcaps of other humans, and not within the coils of her own slick, grey matter.

As she dredges herself toward the shower, she remembers the dream of Vera. How drunk the petite woman was. How she claimed her stomach was upset from pizza but the Governor knew better, because the Governor always knows better. So, the Governor had pushed her toward the bathroom and held her hair as her Deputy had emptied the contents of her stomach into the pristine commode.

Turning on the shower, Joan rolls her eyes back and bites her lips, thinking about how her fingers had grazed Vera’s temples and the little nuggets of spine at her neck as she had retched in an almost orgasmic fashion over the porcelain throne. Joan had gone to get a glass of water, in the dream, as Vera had been too weak to rise from the bathroom floor. And when she’d come back, she’d helped Vera to her feet and asked if she should put her to bed. Then she had helped Vera down the hall to her bed. 

She practically snorts now, as she squirts a healthy palmful of exfoliant into her hand, at the audacity of it- that she would request to tuck the fragile, pale Deputy into her bed. Surely this must have been a dream because only in a dream could Joan have been imbued with such puerile tenderness.

And yet. . .

The dream stays with her throughout the morning. It does not flutter off like a fickle butterfly. No. It stays, as though she had caught it, pinned and mounted it, so she could take her time looking it over, examining it, as it were.

At her desk, she taps her pencils and gazes absently at the CCTV.

 _What to do. Whattodo_ , she mutters to herself under her breath.

She remembers the bottle of vodka she has tucked in the drawer in her private bathroom. She’s gotten here early. No one else is cluttering the halls of her prison as of yet. She rises from her leather throne and slinks to the bathroom. She opens the drawer and looks at the bottle. It is large and clear and full, almost phallic in its promise. Her fingers flutter over it and then up to her lips which are already pinched in a small smile.

To put Vera to bed. . .

And then what?

Does it even matter?

She straightens and arches her shoulders back in their stiff suit sleeves. 

Oh, her subconscious thinks it is so clever, concocting these silly little scenarios in her sleep, as though they were things Joan hadn’t ever considered. She does not want Vera. She does not need Vera. But she can have her. And she can bend reality to suit her subconscious.

She will pin and mount this little butterfly and then she will examine it. She will look at each and every one of its tiny scales as it lies there, spread out for her and for her alone.


End file.
